Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1920)

70 ooing oome (Continued from page 74) Speed paused, hoping that Helen would discover his meaning, but she only waited for him to continue. " — and so I couldn't bring myself to compete against him — you understand." "Oh, Mr. Speed!" Helen's blue eyes deepened to violet as she spoke. "I knew that there were men noble enough to sacrifice themselves for their friends, but I had never hoped to meet one." Speed cast his eyes down, with a gesture of modesty, then looked soulfully into Helen's eyes. "Now, for the first time. I almost regret allowing him to run in my place." The runners came out on the track and lined up. Speed clutched his trusty pennant and sprang down in front of the stand to lead the cheering. His language was certainly athletic and he loved the make-up and clothes, but that was as near as he had ever come to making the 'varsity team. In Helen's eyes he was a hero, a magnanimous, self-sacrificing hero. Culver Covington, star runner and trackman, met a great ovation as he took his place in the line, and Helen was most happy, with tears in her eyes, to observe the efforts of the cheer leader in Culver's behalf. Then came a hush. "Get set!" The starter stood pistol in hand as the tense rUnners crouched. "Ready—" Bang! Culver flashed into the lead, held it and finished first easily, doing the hundred yards in record intercollegiate time. The stands were a seething frenzy of excitement. Jean was beside herself w'ith joy. Donald Keap some rows away looked hopefully toward his wife. She caught his glance and turned her head away with a haughty toss. Patient as always, Donald smiled at her. Then he pushed his way onto the field and congratulated Culver. "Thank you, Don." Then Culver's smile faded. He touched the Distinguished Service medal on Donald's coat. "If I owned one of those, I'd have something to be really proud of." Donald glanced in the direction of his wife. "I've made up my mind, Culver — divorce or no divorce, I love her and I am going to Nevada, too. Maybe I can make her change her mind." Culver sympathetically nodded, then shook his head. "I'm afraid it's too late, Don." STILL BILL" STOVER, foreman of the Flying Heart sheep ranch, stood perplexed of mind in front of the cookshack. He looked down at a telegram in his hand and then blinked up at the blazing Nevada sun. His motley crew of sheep men stood about him waiting for him to speak. "Here you Willie — you read it." Willie stepped forward. He was something to look upon. Despite the innocence of his name he was a genuine Nevada two-gun desperado. His brief stature, his weazened face and his iron rimmed glasses gave him a rare professional appearance. But he had a hard mouth and he carried a brace of six-guns. Willie read with much impressiveness : William Stover, Flying Heart Ranch, Kidder, Nevada. Arrive tomorrow with party of friends, rooms. Dinner at eight. Prepare guest Roberta Keap. "Boss, if they eat dinner that early, they must have breakfast before daylight," Willie added as he folded up the telegram and handed it back. One of the most exciting things about life on the Flying Heart sheep ranch was the fact of its immediate adjacency to the Centipede cattle ranch. In the view of a cattle rancher all sheep ranchers should be deported to Fiddlers' Green, and that, as anv competent authority will tell you, is seven miles below Hell. In the matter of its opinions the Centipede " and besides, I shall rar^ch stood as an orthodox unit. The owner marry him if I want to." ^^^ dictator of affairs on the Centipede was (Continued on page 114)